


Allan and Amelia

by vanillafluffy



Category: Allan Quatermain Series - H. Rider Haggard, Amelia Peabody - Elizabeth Peters, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (2003)
Genre: Africa, Archaeology, Crossover, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Egypt, Egyptology, Fiction, Fiction presented as non-fiction, Fiction presented as non-fiction and vice versa, Gen, Lost Civilization, Secrets, Stealth Crossover, lost kingdom - Freeform, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 07:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15091667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Two of the greatest explorers of the 19th century, Amelia Peabody and Allan Quatermain meet for the first time  and compare adventures.





	Allan and Amelia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



> The mention of unrest in the Sudan and the location stated for their firman seems to indicate that this incident occurred shortly before to the Emersons departed for their Nubian expedition in 1897 (The Last Camel Died at Noon). Any errors may be attributed to the age and deteriorating quality of the original manuscript, or perhaps Mrs. Emerson misremembered while transcribing the conversation.

Having completed my shopping in the bazaar, with the order of two dozen shirts for Emerson to be sent to our suite at Shepherd’s Hotel, I decided to visit a coffeehouse for refreshment before returning. While many European women hesitate to frequent such establishments, this one was located in a respectable neighborhood, and furthermore, the proprietor was related to out reis, Abdullah in some convoluted way.

I therefore felt no qualms about entering the portal of the Golden Fez and striding to a table near the door to the inner courtyard where there was adequate ventilation. The other patrons were at that hour all men, and almost to a man, they were puffing great clouds of smoke from various pipes and hookahs.

When I say “almost to a man”, I am engaging in no hyperbole, for only two men of the dozen or so occupying that establishment were not polluting their bodies with tobacco or other substances. Rather to my surprise, I recognized one of those men. He was young, ginger-haired, clean shaven and a favourite scoundrel of mine--although at the sight of him, I was quite thankful that my husband Emerson, accompanied by our son Ramses, was occupied elsewhere.

“Mr. O’Connell!” I hailed him. He turned away from the man to whom he was speaking--also European, by the looks of him--and seemed quite shocked to see me. 

I cannot imagine why; I have long believed that a lady who comports herself with dignity may go anywhere. And besides, I carry a pistol on my belt of tools and am a ‘crack-shot’, as our American friend Cyrus Vandergelt is wont to say.

Kevin O’Connell made some comment to his companion, who I judged to be in his fifties--some decades older than Kevin, at any rate. Unlike the younger man, he was not clean-shaven. His hair was entirely silver, while his full beard and mustache bore a few dark streaks that spoke of its color in his prime. Still, he exuded vigor, and I could not help but think that this might well be attributed to his abstinence from the demon-weed, for he was the other non-smoker in the cafe.

The young reporter approached my table alone. “Mrs. Emerson! What a deuced odd place to find you!” The young man greeted me with a searching look, and I suspected I knew why.

“Fear not--that is, if you’re concerned my husband may harbor some ill-will. He and Ramses are currently visiting the Department of Antiquities.”

“He promised to thrash me the last time we met--I don’t take that lightly, ma’am.”

“Nor should you,” I said cheerfully. “But you are safe enough today.”

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Emerson--either my watch has stopped, or one of my sources has had the effrontery to arrive early. If you’ll excuse me--” He drifted toward the archway of the courtyard, pausing beside his table momentarily. I heard him say, “By your leave, Quatermain--I’ll just be a moment….”

My interest was piqued, for I was quite familiar of the memoirs of that legendary explorer published more than a decade ago. From the other table, he met my gaze with piercing brown eyes, to my mortification at having been apprehended in such unseemly curiosity. 

“Did I hear aright?” he asked in a deep and resonant voice betraying origins in the Highlands. “You’re Mrs. Emerson, the archaeologist? A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madame--your reputation and that of your noteworthy husband are well-known and respected.”

“As is yours, sir--that is, if you are the same Quatermain whose memoir about King Solomon’s treasure created such a sensation.”

“I have that distinction,” he replied, although there was a note of irony in his voice. “Although, as one who is familiar with this continent, I’m sure you’re aware that certain matters presented were fiction.”

I preened, having certainly discerned those things. “It is hardly surprising,” I observed, “for it would be the height of folly to publish directions to such a treasure. Doubtless a number of details were altered, for you look nothing whatever as you described yourself in that volume.” Indeed, he must have altered his age as well, for at the time I encountered him, he seemed to be in his middle fifties, which, as some readers may recall, was the age he stated being at the time of his exploits.

Kevin O’Connell was talking animatedly with an individual wearing native robes, although I had my suspicions that he was nothing of the sort, being of a less bronzed complexion than the typical local.

Noting where my attention lay, Quatermain chuckled, like a jungle cat purring. “Apparently it’s true what they say, that you’re a very observant woman. A good quality to have, taking notice of details. I have tracked prey by bent grasses and broken twigs and more than once, seeing a single paw-print was enough to caution me, lest I become dinner for some hunter mightier than I.”

“Surely you are no longer required to hunt for your livelihood?”

In response, he pulled his watch from his vest pocket. Hanging from the fob, set in a gold bezel, was an uncut diamond the size of a hazelnut. “No, the elephants are safe now--from me, at any rate.”

“I must say, Mr. Quatermain, you are rather younger than I had expected from your accounts. You did mention that you were in your fifties and you’d been hunting for thirty years. And yet, ten years after your first book was published, I would hardly credit you with that age. Another discreet fiction?”

“Africa won’t let me die,” he declared. “It keeps me young to be active, to explore, to see the world. My newfound wealth has allowed me to broaden the scope of my travels. I’ve seen the wilds of five continents. Always, I return here.”

“I was quite saddened to read of the death of your son,” I felt compelled to say, having also read the subsequent volume of his memoirs..

He brushed off my condolence. “Another fabrication. My son is alive and well, but after publication of my adventures, he was much plagued by fortune-hunters and adopted his mother’s name, Rider-Haggard. Currently, he has a quiet practice in Aberdeen.”

At this point, he raised his hand and summoned one of the servers. “What will you have, Mrs. Emerson? I’d be no gentleman if I didn’t offer hospitality to a lady such as yourself.”

In such company, I did not feel that tea was adequate to toast out acquaintance. “Whisky and soda,” was my reply. “Or simply whisky, if there’s no soda to be had.”

“Bring the bottle,” Quatermain directed the proprietor, and our host scurried off.

A very short time later, we were presented with a rather dusty bottle and Quatermain presented the man with enough cash to buy a case of whisky. Given the religious prohibitions against strong liquor, I was not surprised to see traces of cobweb still clinging to our bottle. 

Quatermain drew a knife from his boot, a knife unlike any I have ever seen before or since. In shape, it was nothing remarkable--for there are a finite number of ways to forge a single-sided blade. Still, that blade was the length of my forearm, and it had a lustrous gray-black sheen. Carefully, he ran the edge of the blade around the wax seal, then extracted the cork. 

“This knife,” he said while decanting our libations, “is to my mind the greatest treasure I brought back from that expedition. It cuts anything, even other metal, and I once climbed a mountain by clinging to the rocks and jamming the blade into cracks in the cliff face. In all the years I’ve had it, I’ve never needed to strop it; it has kept a keen edge for as long as I’ve had it.”

“I have heard that there are such things as black diamonds,” I commented with some perplexity, “but that they could be forged into a blade I find incredible.”

Quatermain shook his white hair. “Not diamonds…an event so fantastic that I omitted it from my writings entirely. One evening, during my sojourn in the region I called ‘Kukuanaland’, as I sat at the fire with my companions and our native friend, T’Chata…suddenly, every dog in the village began to howl, and fled with his tail between his legs. We became aware of a sound, faint at first, but increasing until it sounded like a continuous rumble of thunder. Although the sun had set hours ago, there was a blue-white light in the sky--not the moon, for that was plainly visible, but something else, growing ever closer.”

Here Quatermain picked up his drink, nodding to me. “To your health, Sitt Hakim!” He _was_ knowledgeable, if he was aware of that affectionate name the locals have for me. It means “The Lady Doctor”.

“And to you, sir.” I sampled my whisky, and found it better than expected.

Thankfully, Kevin was still engrossed in whatever his source was telling him. They were peering at something that appeared to be a map. Perhaps it was news of military actions in the Sudan. At another time, I might have joined them with questions, but today, I was quite riveted by my new acquaintance’s tale.

“What was the light in the sky?” I enquired.

“It soared toward us; it seemed as if the sun itself had come to join us. It struck the jungle scarcely a mile away with a boom that rattled our teeth. As soon as that concussion had died out, fire began spreading toward the grasslands of the kraal. For the next day and a half, we were too busy fighting the flames and trying to save the kingdom’s livestock to take a closer look at their source.

“When we were finally able to approach the center of the crater, which was almost a quarter of a mile across, we saw a mass of rock, still emitting heat.”

“A meteor!” I exclaimed, then at Quatermain’s frown at my volume, took another sip of my beverage. “I beg your pardon, but I am quite intrigued. I recently read a scientific paper about a discovery in the American desert of a crater made by some large space rock--how extraordinary to think that you have witnessed such a thing!”

“Indeed. In a long life filled with threats to life and limb, that was one of the most frightening. My sainted mother’s people were missionaries, and although I’ll confess I’m something of an old heathen, when that fireball was racing toward us, I prayed as never before.”

“And your knife was forged from that meteor?” I asked, the point of his story becoming clear.

“From a small piece that broke off.” He sheathed the black blade again. “The smith who forged it told me it was uncommonly difficult to work with, but he made a good job of it.”

“I thank you for your confidence, Mr. Quatermain. I assure you, I will be most discreet.”

Quatermain nodded. “I don’t doubt it. You’re well-known, Mrs. Emerson, for your works in this country, and not solely for excavating. You’re revered for assisting the ill and injured, and you treat both your beasts of burden and your workers with kindness and dignity. If there is anything I despise about my fellow Europeans, it’s their habit of treating the natives as less than they. In a great many cases, I would say the reverse is true--”

“Certainly,” I agreed, thinking of Abdullah, who has always been quite fatherly toward me, and is the nearest likeness to a grandfather that Ramses will ever know. “Origin is no measure of friendship. I need not tell you that--you made friends in ‘Kukuanaland’, or whatever it is called. Do you miss them?”

“Ah, done so soon?” said Quatermain in a cautionary tone as Kevin approached. 

Kevin looked from him to me. “What have I missed?” he wanted to know.

Quatermain gave an elaborate shrug. “Oh, just the usual sort of thing. I’m an admirer of Mrs. Emerson and her husband, thanks in part to your…coverage…of their expeditions. Imagine my modest surprise when she assured me that my memoirs had come to her attention. No doubt we could talk at length about our travels and travails.”

“I must send a cable,” Kevin said, and I realized he was clutching a packet of papers. “but Mr. Q., if we could just continue our conversation on the way to the telegraph office--”

“Duty calls,” Quatermain told me dryly. “Enjoy the bottle, Mrs. Emerson!” By then, Kevin was midway to the front door, and the explorer leaned close and said to me, “I miss them a great deal, for they are a warm and loving people, but rest assured, I will see them again. I am planning another expedition to Wakanda. A pity there is nothing there to interest an Egyptologist; I suspect you would make an able traveling companion.”

Then he was gone, and I was left to sip my whisky--very generous of him, I’m sure--and to realize that he had trusted me with that kingdom’s true name, known to no one else. _An able traveling companion_ , he’d said. A tremendous compliment, coming from such a man!

Still, there was Emerson to consider. Our firman for Gebel Barkal and Nepata was approved; it couldn’t be changed at that late date. Neither the Department of Antiquities nor my husband would hear of it. I re-corked the bottle and secured it in my market basket. It wouldn’t do to waste such a gift. For a moment, I allowed myself to contemplate Quatermain’s glorious expedition, then I sighed, drained my drink (and his as well, there being a quarter-inch left in the bottom of the glass) and went glumly on my way. I dearly love Emerson, but sometimes it is a nuisance that he is so confoundedly logical!

...


End file.
